Jiggity Jig

To Prague, to Prague,
To eat like a pig.
Home again, home again...

Well, you know the rest.

My excuses for not writing much these past couple of weeks range from the weak (too cold outside and me too lazy to go to an internet cafe) to the partially weak (busy having fun and eating yummy food).

So then, what? I've eaten well, laughed a lot and enjoyed some great company. Along the way I saw a bit more of Germany and the Czech Republic, not that I took any photos. And now, back in Lorgues, it's as if the last three weeks haven't happened at all, except as some happy delusion in my mind. (It probably is delusional to think I could be that happy on a permanent basis).

In Prague I visited Strakonice, Cesky Krumlov, watched some fireworks, went for a long hike to look at various gigantic statues carved into boulders, went to the ballet, made a snowman almost as tall as me, watched countless hours of Czech Christmas TV programming, spent several happy nights at the pub and just generally had a good time.

In Berlin, did a walking tour which was great (though it would have been even better had I not been freezing my arse off), visited some museum whose name eludes me, but who had some very nice artefacts salvaged (pillaged?) from Babylon, learnt a bit more about pre-united Germany and even more about myself.

In Potsdam, visited the big park that (I think) was named with Australians in mind: Sanssouci (no worries, heheh) sketched, enjoyed the wide open spaces and pretty trees, walked around town and finally gave in to the cold, spending the rest of the afternoon indoors with some hot wine.

So, what, then? After a while, does it not seem like the endless litany of places visited and things done becomes some kind of keeping-up-with-the-Joneses for the 00s? Instad of mindlessly acquiring gadgets, clothing, knick-knacks or other possessions, or mindfully acquiring shares, property or other investments, is it now a case of collecting travel experiences and listing them like some kind of new, intangible materialism, some kind social passport to being interesting to others?

The litanies of others bore me. My own litany bores me.

Probably I'll feel a bit more optimistic about normal life when I've forgotten a little how nice a time I had on holiday, or at least when the gigantic pile of laundry in the corner of my room has lessened somewhat.